


Medamaude

by neptunesque_momus



Category: Ballum, EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dreams, Drowning, Extended Scene, Fear of Death, Hurt Callum, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Oneiric, Rejection, Surreal, wallowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24421741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neptunesque_momus/pseuds/neptunesque_momus
Summary: "And Callum may have been used to the tiresome efforts of 'putting things into perspective', as they say, of endlessly re-contextualising events and switching between different viewpoints rather than instinctively settling for the one at most immediate reach. But now he finally felt he could construct no larger or more complete picture than the one which was currently staring him in the face, the one that depicted the never-changing emotional cycle he felt he was stuck inside of:the panicked struggle for the surface; the gasp of relief of the breakthrough; the heartwrenching shove back into the unbreathable underneath."
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Medamaude

**Author's Note:**

>   
> This is a scene continuation from the 26th May 2020 episode, starting off from the boys' argument in front of the Mitchell house. It's really just the product of the angst I've been building up in recent times, due to the way Ben keeps, frankly speaking, constantly fucking up, over and over again, and the writers keep giving barely any closure to any of these fuck-ups where Callum's feelings are concerned. I'm very prone to feelings of angst myself, so I guess it's more the projection of my own pain onto Callum's character than anything else. Oh, and also just the text doing its own thing for great part of it; I didn't plan to stray so far from a simple lonesome wallowing scene/analysis of Callum's hidden feelings, but alas, something else wanted to come out.
> 
> Also a **warning** : this text is heavily based on themes of rejection, anxiety, fear of drowning/drowning imagery and alcohol abuse; overall, very angsty in tone and content. This is not a heart-warming tale, I'm afraid. Please read at your discretion.
> 
> Title is from _Yume Nikki_.
> 
> **Music recommendations** : 私たちは、ハイパーマーケットをさまよう by 2814; _Martian Underground_ from the Yume Nikki OST; or anything that fills you with sufficient angst and emptiness.  
> 

"It would help if you weren't so patronisin'!"

Here they were again.

The incredulous tone of Callum's "What?!" would fall on deaf ears, as always, not so much because of Ben's actual hearing-loss, but rather because the stubborn man was striding away from him with infuriating determination, back relentlessly turned on him, mind safely closed-off within the barriers of denial and insecurity: he'd decided he didn't want to hear. This had been his recurring response to every upsetting situation, lately, and something that Callum had grown accostumed to having to deal with, albeit with lessening strength of spirit.

"Cooking me a meal, talking real slow—now wha' am I, an invalid or some'ing?"

Callum managed to reach him and force him to face him.

"No, no—no, Ben! _I love you_ ," he signed to him, hoping desperately that that phrase would suffice for once, would convey at least some of what Ben needed to soothe this animosity that chronically flared up towards him.

"How can you?!", Ben shouted back, with an anger that made Callum flinch. "I'm _not_ the person that you fell in love with! And i' is only a ma'er of time before everybody finds out."

Ben prevented himself from having to witness the look of hurt on his boyfriend's face any longer—the one image that would undoubtedly keep him awake and shuddering with suppressed sobs later that night—instead focusing his sight on his father's house. It didn't look like home to Ben, and yet here he was again, trying to push away Callum, the one in whose arms he could actually find some warmth and shelter, just for the very uncertain opportunity of finally gaining that eternally-sought seat next to the head of the Mitchells. A prize glinting blindingly strong still, even if his eye knew that it was only fool's gold; yet oftentimes it can't be helped or faulted, if the most value is assigned to what has been placed on the highest, most unreachable pedestal, whether that be its righteous place or not. The vulnerable child within Ben was still reaching out for the highest shelf, wailing the want of the cobwebs and dust that resided there, even as mountains of colorful toys surrounded him.

Callum was looking for words of comfort again but there was an unignorable pang in his stomach that made his nose sting painfully and his eyes water against his will. Thoughts became hazy and ephemeral whenever this weighty ball of pain formed itself in his abdomen, pulsating in an all-invasive way. Besides, there were no more tricks to pull out of his magic hat. What was he supposed to answer to a claim that still didn't make sense, in spite of how many times he'd heard it come out of the other's mouth? What strategy was he supposed to take when it seemed to him that he'd exhausted them all—that he'd exhausted _himself_ , worn himself off to the barest of threads in this seemingly never-ending cycle of grovelling after a man who didn't want to face him, only to be shunned with a venomous lash of the tongue as soon as he'd breathlessly caught up to him?

Every time he broke through the surface to take a breath of relief it was knocked out of his lungs; there was always a hand ready to shove him back underneath the water.

He stared into those averted eyes—which would meet his again somewhere else that night, even if they wouldn't dare here under the streetlights—speechlessly, unconsciously holding his breath. When Ben finally murmured that he would be staying at his dad's for the night, walking past him too swiftly, without another glance or touch, Callum's lungs expelled shakily, only to quickly draw in stale air, readying for the familiar descent.

A burning sensation made its way up his throat. He tried swallowing it down—it wasn't something he _wasn't_ used to doing, by any rate—but his body felt out of his control, almost as if it had sensed that allowing this flaming reflux to travel back down into his stomach one more time would cause irreparable damage to his organism, and had thus switched on auto-pilot to preserve itself. Teeth gritting together and whitening fists clenched helplessly at his sides, Callum spun around with considerable delay. He felt his lips twitch before his mouth screamed "Stop running away, for fuck's sake, Ben!" at the man who was rapidly putting more and more distance between them, hour by hour exponentially lenghtening the amount of hostile space Callum would have to traverse to get to him.

But he was screaming underwater, his pain echoing unheard.

By the time he realised he'd let out those words, the cold air was chipping away at the wet spots on his cheeks. He wondered for how long the ringing in Ben's ears would last, and whether it hurt just as much as the feeling of drowning that was crushing his chest with its viciously merciless grip.

* * *

Back in his lonely flat, Callum had stumbled in without bothering to turn on the lights. He'd turned off his phone as soon his eyes had identified Ben's name on the lockscreen (he tried to pretend his skipping heartbeat hadn't forced him to skim over the accompanying text-preview, which began with the words _'I'm sorry for leaving like . . .'_ ), turned on the television, grabbed several beers from the fridge (he wagered he'd be chugging them fast enough for them not to warm up in the meantime) and settled on the sofa for the night. A bottle of vodka he'd procured from the shops was lying, still in its plastic bag, on the coffee table, but he figured he'd start off with something less wince-inducing to pave the way.

Time was running past so effortlessly that it almost didn't exist. All that could prove its existence to Callum was the change in colors of the screen's flashing lights, the useless droning flow of enthusiastic voice tones coming at the lowest volume setting from the speakers, the irksome regularity of the ticking of the wall-clock – but mostly the only sensation that was really being perceived by Callum, that is, the recurring waves of pain that surged deep from within him and made him grip at the pillow that he held closely pressed against his stomach for some semblance of comfort and relief.

Some waves were worse and then even much worse than others, and they were the ones that were accompanied by unwanted images of Ben's rejection suddenly imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. Or maybe it was the ones of Ben's apologies and reconciliatory promises and declarations—so bittersweetly relieving, heartwarming even, in the moment of their occurrance, and yet devoid of meaning in hindsight—that wound the most. And Callum may have been used to the tiresome efforts of 'putting things into perspective', as they say, of endlessly re-contextualising events and switching between different viewpoints rather than instinctively settling for the one at most immediate reach. But now he finally felt he could construct no larger or more complete picture than the one which was currently staring him in the face, the one that depicted the never-changing emotional cycle he felt he was stuck inside of:

the panicked struggle for the surface; the gasp of relief of the breakthrough; the heartwrenching shove back into the unbreathable underneath

**He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't expect to be thrust back downwards, by now.**

**And if he said he wasn't getting increasingly terrified**

**that this time he'd be pushed so far underneath,**

**he wouldn't be able to reach for air**

**before his lungs would flood with the raw water**

**that was burning the skin of his nostrils,**

**then he'd be lying to himself.**

**The phases of ascent and descent were starting to blur and merge,**

**so rapidly they were succeeding one another.**

**Was he moving at all?**

**Soon it would be night up there, he thought,**

**and if the moon were to summon a blanket of clouds behind whose warmth to keep itself hidden,**

**he might just lose all sense of orientation and become unable to distinguish up from down,**

**so much his head was spinning from the lack of oxygen and from the primal fear that its deprivation provoked within him.**

**When finally—unexpectedly, even, due to the unconscious mindlessness of his upward movements—he reached the moonlit surface, he managed to grab onto and wrap his spent body around one of the fingers of the giant hand. It had been waiting for him with no malicious intent this time, palm open and upturned, inviting him to rest onto its warm, dry surface. He did so for an indefinite while, after having coughed up all of the water he had ingested on his way up. When his eyelids lifted again, a glowing bluish-grey eye, almost as big as himself, was staring at him, embedded within the palm itself as it was.**

**_Ready?_ it said in a voice that wasn't entirely unknown to him. _Take a proper deep breath, now, Halfway._**

**_Oh God, not down there again, please!_ , he wanted to plead. He'd just barely registered that his foot wouldn't move if he tried pulling it towards him, when the hand had already wrapped itself around him, bringing him headlong beneath the ocean's surface once again. But this time it was shrouding him securely, or so it felt to him, as it transported him with frightening speed towards the bottom of the ocean.**

**Painful moving-images of his lover yelling at him,**

**turning away from him with ears covered,**

**fleeing from him flashed past his eyes. The sounds were muffled by the water rushing past his ears, by his own cries of despair.**

**Once the giant hand had reached its destination and released him, he saw that it was pointing towards his foot, another beaming eye—this one smaller and more aqua than grey—staring at him from its position on the index's nail. What looked like miles of rusted metal chain were surrounding him, resting heavily on the rocky sea bottom. At its furthest end the chain disappeared into the rock, at its closest it trapped his ankle within a locked cuff. The locker was engraved with some glowing symbols: _C + B_ , enveloped within a crooked heart.**

**Callum found a key in his hand; he knew it would fit into the locker perfectly. The index-nail-eye – his own eye? – was looking at him imploringly, now pointing insistently at the end of the chain that vanished below the rocky earth. Callum threw the key away from him with conviction, setting instead to work on freeing the chain from where it was trapped in the submarine bottom. He'd been tugging with all the strength he could muster until he felt he had no force left in his arms, before he decided to look at the giant hand for assistence. But just then, the hand started swimming upwards, waving goodbye at him as the stubborn palm-eye dropped another key, identical to the one Callum had thrown away moments before, right into the hand that he was stretching out towards it as a request for help, silently begging it not to leave him stranded down there. Among the deafeningly overlapping voices coming from the moving-images that were floating above, he thought he could discern one yelling out in exasperation:**

**" _I can't_ — _hear ya!_ "**

**And the palm-eye kept glowing to afford him the light he needed to see what was around him, even as it eventually disappeared into the abyss above, but its light blue-grey iris had rolled upwards, only leaving a frighteningly white bulb momentarily accessible to Callum's sight.**

**Suddenly he felt the excruciating pressure of the surrounding water on his body; surely his eardrums would cave in any minute now, his lungs would be crushed or collapse from within in no time.**

**His bulging eyes darted back and forth frantically from the key he was clenching in his palm to the engraved locker. He'd almost reached the conclusion that his only possible salvation was to free his ankle from the love-marked cuff, before he noticed that the last ring of the chain on its other end appeared to be nothing but frail rust. With the pointy end of the locker key, he started chipping away at the rusted ring until it gently burst into red dust flakes.**

**He was already clawing his way towards the surface at full speed—the chain attached to his foot was incredibly fucking heavy, but his animal brain had switched into full-on survival mode now—when the remnants of the destroyed ring touched the rocky bottom, causing it to dissolve around the huge metal anchor that had been stuck in there, keeping Callum chained for so long.**

**Callum could feel every last ounce of vital energy being drained from him with every inch he conquered towards the salvation of the ocean's surface, and the urge to just allow himself to draw in a lungful of water was steadily becoming inescapable. Then he heard the screaming voices that surrounded him—calling his name harrowingly—being muffled again, as he noticed the weighless anchor shooting up towards him, hurtling towards the surface at a much faster pace than he was. He seized it when it reached his height, with his thighs wrapped around the arm on which he sat and one hand holding onto its shank for dear life, while the other covered one of his ears, the other ear pressed up against his shoulder. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to hear or feel anything except for the deafening pounding of his heart.**

**_Faster, you goddamn fucking useless piece of shit junk!_ he wanted to yell at the anchor as he looked up through slitted eyes, repeating frantically to himself not to give in now, more than actually trying to assess the distance from his source of oxygen, at any rate. A panicked feeling settled on his chest at the thought that he might not make it after all—that maybe the whole universe had become one single block of dark, never-ending water and no surface existed at all to be broken through. But the light from up above was steadily increasing in intensity, and he knew he must make it, if he just held on.**

**He looked down. Maybe he could find a way to inhale the bubbles that were being released by the water displacement caused by the anchor's ascent—or better yet, a way to re-inhale whatever air his lungs were still miraculously holding, if only he could find the strength to scream it out of his system!**

**Suddenly a white flickering blur caught his eye. It was a note stabbed into the anchor's fluke, at the end of the arm he was sitting on. The edges of his eyesight had begun fading out, and his lungs were screaming compulsorily—their last natural response before they would start choking him out, he thought in a wild frenzy—when he read, in thick, all-capital black handwriting:**

_" **IM PROUD OF YOU** "_

**Author's Note:**

>   
> This was supposed to go in another direction, but I guess it decided to metamorphise into something else entirely, in part. I also wrote part of a continuation/second chapter I guess, focused on Callum's thoughts after he wakes up from the nightmare, but am still unsure as to whether it should actually be part of this.  
> Hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. All comments are warmly welcomed and appreciated, including criticism (whether on content, style, formatting, etc.). Please don't shy away from letting me know that this reads overly-pretentious, if you thought it does.
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading : )  
> 


End file.
